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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730871">dig in deeper</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, Background Relationships, Brotherhood, Family Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Alex Manes, POV First Person, Surreal, Welcome to Roswell, alex manes centric, manes family</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:40:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730871</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon further reflection, this town is not as normal as a first glance may reveal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael Guerin/Alex Manes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>dig in deeper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 01/03/19</b>
</p><p>First day in Roswell. Drove by way of Albuquerque. Three hours on the 285 of dirt and nothing that gave way to cookie-cutter homes and more dirt. Past a tractor supply store and an elementary school on the edge of the town is the motel. Roswell 6. Interior hasn’t been updated since the 70s. Carpeting hasn’t been cleaned since the 90s. The funk<span>—</span>that mold and stagnant water drip<span>—</span>is seeped into the pale red leaves of the wallpaper. Staff are friendly if disinterested. Lots of tourists, another new face is of no consequence.</p><p>First impressions are of a small town making a buck on the suckers who buy into the little green men schtick. Motel bed squeaky. Leg hurting like a motherfucker after the drive. And the biggest sucker this town has ever seen is staring up at the ceiling fan wondering how his life got so utterly and completely fucked over that he’s on an assignment to investigate flying saucer gift shops and punny local cafes playing into the gimmick.</p><p>But who knows. Maybe those Crashdown burgers really <em> are </em> out of this world.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 01/04/19</b>
</p><p>First morning waking up in Roswell. Trying to stay positive<span>—</span>treat this like a surprise vacation. Even shitty vacations can be good, right? Add to supply list: Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts.</p><p>Don’t tell the Major I’m fucking around in these reports, okay? Just let me have this, at least. Like you’re even reading them, anyway, I’m not kidding myself. How long would it take anyone to bother to check in if I included my suicide note in one of these?</p><p>Joke. Mostly.</p><p>Morning was boring<span>—</span>woke up three minutes to seven, light creeping under thick, musty curtains. The room is different in the light. Leaf print shifting in the shadows, quiet except for a distant hum<span>—</span>generator or air conditioner, probably. Breakfast was a delightfully warm energy drink and a bag of pretzels thumped out of the vending machine.</p><p>The town is pretty. I can taste the boot in my teeth for writing that, which is why I’m keeping it in. But it’s also true. Beyond the McDonalds and the poor city planning, the town is cupped in the palm of the mountains surrounding it. I don’t even remember passing them on my way in, but the skyline of purple mountain and that bright, infinite desert sky<span>—</span>takes your breath away.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 01/28/19</b>
</p><p>Spent today rigorously interrogating the teenage tour guide at the alien museum. Hard to tell of the spindly gray figure behind the glass was poorly shaped wax or an element heretofore undiscovered. Wasn’t able to acquire a biological sample of the specimen<span>—</span>damn pimply tour guide was onto me<span>—</span>but I’ll get ‘em next time.</p><p>It’s just as mind-numbingly dull as was intended. Tallies carved into the wall to count the days coming soon.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 02/17/19</b>
</p><p>[REDACTED]. Call me. The service here sucks but I know you’re getting these damn reports. Talk to the Major for me? Purgatory is getting old.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 02/19/19</b>
</p><p>Interesting day. The humming grows in volume at night like a hungry stomach. The manager says it’s the old pipes<span>—</span>bullshit. Half-tempted to pack up and move across town to the Bet Western. Not a typo, that is literally what the sign says. Same font. Same logo. Might be someone’s extralegal attempt at appearing somewhat more modern than the rest of this town. Not quite willing to give up on the Roswell 6, though. The humming is almost soothing, now. <strike>Haven’t had a nightmare in</strike></p><p>That’s not the interesting part. Went into town, as per usual. I’m renting lab space from a biochemical engineer<span>—</span>bit unusual, but then, so is she<span>—</span>to test samples. Liz will occasionally work alongside me in the lab, but I’m usually left alone. Hope you’re all chuckling at the soil analyses and weather tracking I’m doing. It sure feels hilarious to me.</p><p>The interesting part is coming. In fact, he arrived shortly after I did.</p><p>While waiting for the mass-spec to spit out info on dirt scraped up from quadrant-d3 (spoiler alert: it’s dirt) a man entered the lab.</p><p>He introduced himself as Michael. Another engineer. Working with Liz on a project. There’s something there neither of them will tell me--to be fair, I’m still a stranger. And I’d hardly want to tell myself anything.</p><p>Anyway: Michael. I won’t transcribe the conversation but<span>—</span>remember when we were<span>—</span>I think I was ten<span>—</span>and we all went to Six Flags and I threw up after getting on the Joker, and you had your hand on my back and bought me a coke with your last three dollars to get the taste out of my mouth<span>—</span>I squinted up at you and you looked<span>—</span>you were so tall, back then. And you carried me around on your shoulders, from ride to ride, the rest of the day. That’s what it felt like, talking to him.</p><p>[REDACTED], will you just call me? Dick.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 02/21/19</b>
</p><p>I saw him again. Yesterday was nothing, it passed like fog over water. Today I woke up and the leaves were shaking on the walls, the hum was in my teeth. I left the motel compelled, bought a coffee at the Crashdown. To-go. I was walking toward the courthouse<span>—</span>I couldn’t tell you why<span>—</span>and I saw him, in his truck, across the street, turning left, and I<span>—</span>just followed him. Couldn’t tell you why.</p><p>His truck coughed dust, off road, in the wide nothing of shrub and purple mountain. I saw him<span>—</span>he <em> had </em> to have seen me. He parked between cactus and a broken barbed wire fence and<span>—</span>when I walked up to him, he was waiting and his hand touched my arm and he<span>—</span>burning, but like light burns, like joy burns, like too much of a good thing<span>—</span>his handprint, I can feel the heat to my bone, and we<span>—</span></p><p>Have you ever felt the glow of the cosmos?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 02/22/19</b>
</p><p>Ignore the last report. Just rambling. Going a little stir crazy.</p><p>Call me.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 03/03/19</b>
</p><p>Some local color to flavor another otherwise dull report:</p><p>The feed supply store in town has camels. Real camels, that spit and snort, chew at straw with glazed eyes. Michael says to stay away, as they’re not well trained. Says there’ve been four maulings in the last month alone. Sometimes I can’t tell where the joke ends in Roswell.</p><p>The Wild Pony is the only bar in town. Literally, the only one. Never seems too terribly busy, though. The proprietor is a psychic. She, Maria that is, says my aura is evolving and fixed me a mezcal on the house. She says I should paint my nails again. She says I should listen close, to the songs humming up in the air; that they’re a phone call for me to pick up. The drink was good enough and when she read my palm, she mapped a long life line and a great love, so that’s something.</p><p>Stopped by Sheriff Valenti yesterday and fined for, ‘excessive frowning.’ Punishment is forty years in prison or to light a candle and say something kind into the mirror. I told myself, <em> you are enough. </em> I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m telling you, regardless. I don’t know why I let her hug me; why her arms felt so much like falling asleep on a long drive. Bumpy embrace, <em> are we there yet? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), 04/07/19</b>
</p><p>There’s a guitar in the motel room that was not there yesterday. One touch turned to five hours. Fingertips depressed, string canyons carved into them. I sat outside my door on a plastic bench and invited my motel neighbors out by way of strumming, humming. Finally in tune with that sweet, high song that seeps from somewhere faraway, shakes eardrums and dreams. Palo santo smoke and curious eyes crept from behind doors. Soon, an audience of criss-cross seating and folding chairs and javelinas. Eyes glimmering like insect wings. Steady beating breaths, hummingbird hearts.</p><p>I played until dark drained away, dawn transuding the horizon with citrus sunbeams.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>Upon further reflection, this town is not as normal as a first glance may reveal.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>There was a bonfire in the center of town last night. Everyone<span>—</span><em>everyone<span>—</span></em>gathered in concentric circles, radiating from its flaming center. Michael and my friend Maria stood with me, each at a shoulder. They told me to stay quiet.</p><p>The fire grew. Slow at first, then rapidly, undulating shape and color. Red, orange, purple, white. Drums sounded from the soles of our shoes. Stars washed out in smoke. A humming<span>—</span>a rumbling stampede starting in my chest<span>—</span>sang in the trees, whispered over our skin. Lyrics I did not, could not know formed in my mouth and fed the flames. We raised our arms to an unseen sky and danced as unabashed as children. Shaking, twisting, grinning and gulping our breath. Hands I did not<span>—</span>could not<span>—</span>know touched me but<span>—</span>it was okay. They tore away my nightmares, grabbing onto them like bricks, breaking them against the dirt. They reached inside my skin and stripped away all the beetles crawling in there, all the words [REDACTED] used to say. I hadn’t even noticed them still skittering around inside of me but we drummed them into the hard earth with our dancing. I touched the fire when it turned black and it soothed my hands, cool as aloe.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>Conducted another interview with the UFO Emporium employee. He reminds me of you; sixteen, shaggy hair you thought made you look cool but really made you look young. Sharp kid, though he hides it. He completed the full tour, this time. We went from one artifact to the next. Shards of plates with saucers painted on their edges. Flutes made of gold. Polaroids from an alien planet, with three suns and red skies. The napkin Queen Elizabeth II used at the 2013 Royal Christmas Dinner. A petrified purple cat from Uranus. The room was empty, but the longer we spun in circles, the clearer I could see what he described. After mom left, you would line up all my dinosaur figurines on my window sill, and say, <em> if she comes looking, she’ll know we’re still here. </em> She would call us her little t-rexes, because we wrecked the house. I hope she forgave us for all the messes we made. Did you ever find her? I know you went looking, a few years back. I know I said I didn’t care. I know you know I lied.</p><p>How long have I been gone, [REDACTED]? If it’s been awhile, and you see her again, will you mention<span>—</span>will you tell her<span>—</span>well. You know. That we used to put those dinos up each night, just in case.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>I was twelve when [REDACTED] broke your arm. I remember you missed your soccer tournament. I remember you cried.</p><p>I’m sorry he did that. I’m sorry we had to endure that. You shouldn’t have. You and [REDACTED] and [REDACTED].</p><p>You know I dream of us, sometimes, still. Walking past kids at the park, kicking a ball and laughing like birdsong. Whenever I listen to Foo Fighters. Making bean bread in the kitchen, working the dough between my fingers; it’s never as good as mom’s but I close my eyes when I first bite into it and twenty years melt away. We’re in the kitchen, [REDACTED] overseas so when you knocked the cornmeal over and spilled it on the dog the only raised voice was our laughter. Wrecking her clean space, demanding treats at her side while she prepared dinner for us. Her braid smelled like the desert honeysuckle and white-sand verbena that she tended to in front of our house. I remember her smiling then, but sometimes her face blurs in my mind and as far back as I try to reach, all I can touch is the edge of memory. Salt dusting her skin, the grape-pattered apron knotted around her waist, the way [REDACTED] would eat his corn pones too fast, still hot and burn his mouth. I wish I remembered her voice. The rise and fall of melody as she sang to us goodnight<span>—</span>was that real? Was I ever really that child in bed?</p><p>When you moved away I hid under my blankets and sucked on my sobs like I was trying to get high, desperate not to make a sound. I think you knew. The grief in all our lungs, how we were all drowning in it; further we got, deeper we sank. I think we all knew.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>I was twenty-two and you’d just got that godawful tattoo when we all intersected in [REDACTED], [REDACTED]. The scheduling of that day should have been impossible, but there we were, squinting in fatigues. Our four skulls hadn’t been under the same roof in a long, long while. Beer and swapping stories, [REDACTED] bragging out his ass over the [REDACTED] he got to fly in [REDACTED]. Shooting the shit with my brothers, talking shop and grinning through bottle glass; if it can only have happened the once, I’m grateful. I know you don’t want to admit it, but you like me. Even when you all hated me for staying loud when [REDACTED] demanded silence, even then I know, now, that you felt as deeply as I did. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>What if there’s more, out there? What if the stars are searchlights, sweeping over us, calling us home? What if the song of the universe is a hum behind your teeth and in the core of the earth, vibrations traveling a billion miles to stand the hairs up on the back of your neck? I saw a man call down lightning and heal a broken heart. I held in my hands a stone lighter than air. I left my house this morning, walked outside. The cactus and glinting lizard tails passed quietly. Sunlight buried me, and in the depth of it, I was everywhere.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>[REDACTED] was fifteen so I must have been seven or so. My first birthday party at the house.</p><p>Mom made cupcakes for the party and fry bread after dinner, after the guests had folded tissue paper into trash and scraped clean their muffin wrappers. I know [REDACTED] was fifteen because he had his permit, tapping his fingers restlessly against the steering wheel, checking on us in the backseat every five seconds while you strapped me in. [REDACTED] must have been out of town for the weekend? There’s no way you could’ve snuck us all out otherwise. [REDACTED] was in the front, messing with the radio, picking whatever station we hated the most, but you chose to sit next to me in the back of mom’s Chevrolet Citation. Ugly, cement gray thing, too cramped to handle four wild boys wrestling like wolves. You were so big, bigger than you actually were, floating high up on my hero-worship. Bruce Wayne in the shadows of our garage, one arm linked around my neck. We drove to the edge of town, where half-built homes sat empty and forgotten and the dry, grassy brush scratched its way uphill. [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] smashed shit with rocks, fought each other into the dirt. You sat me on the hood, made me lean back and blink up at the stars. You gave me my gift and I saw the glitter in your eyes, staring up at the sky; you could see how much <em>more</em> was out there and you wanted to eat it all up.</p><p>I’ll always remember how you looked that night. Dimpled chin and sharp nose slicing open the sky. Your jaw wide as the mountains, teeth shiny as the harmonica in my palms. Warm by my side, not leaving me, watching over us all. [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] swung me up in the air by my arms. I screamed and screamed into that vast black sky, tiny voice tearing straight from my chest as I flew. That was the last time we were all young enough to do something like that, together. Sometimes I hate being the youngest, like I missed out on everything you had before. But I had that. Do you understand yet?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>There’s a sea here, in our backyard. A desert sea surrounded by honey mesquite and writhing juniper trees. In the sea, there is a monster. Forty feet long, sagebrush skin and three big, slow blinking eyes. She surfaces once a week for a gasp of air and sun. Michael and I sat for hours, toes dipping sand, waiting for a glimpse. I told him everything. I cut out my windpipe and revealed the truth in my marrow.</p><p>When she finally emerged<span>—</span>mammoth head breaking the surface of the sands, body slithering up a craggy, loose-rock hill to bathe her scales in sunlight<span>—</span>he held my hand. You must understand, now. Her rattling tail sent shivers for miles. We left a meal of rabbit fur and bone at her shore. As we drove away, his knuckles blazed my cheek, burning hotter than the sunset in our rearview.</p><p>I think you’d like him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Executive Bureau of Foreign Relations</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Claim: 978-0743408783, Investigation Ongoing</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Captain [Redacted] Reporting (Notes), ??/??/??</b>
</p><p>I’m staying, [REDACTED]. I’m staying in Roswell. I’m going to be okay.</p><p>There are songs living in the trees, here, and I’ve got all the time in the world to answer them.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>to: fmanes_ffw@gmail.com</b>
</p><p>
  <b>from: h3ymoon92@hotmail.com</b>
</p><p>In case you’re worried Flint here’s what’s going to happen next:</p><p>When you answer dad’s phone call, as you finish reading this, it will be a report of my disappearance. That’s not important. This is: I love you, brother. Tell Greg and Clay the same. Don’t let dad attend any sort of memorial service they might give me. Don’t come looking.</p><p>I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know this isn’t what you thought would happen. But it’s exactly what needed to happen<span>—</span>and here’s the really good news: it’s my choice.</p><p>I’ve found a home I didn’t think could exist for myself. I’ve found love and family and a place I belong. I hope one day you find that, too.</p><p>Thanks for carrying me around on your shoulders. As for the rest, let’s call it all even and focus on the future now, okay? I know you’re as tired as I am of strapping the past around yourself like armor, breaking your own back from the weight. It’s time to finally put it all down.</p><p>Phone is ringing now. Three times, then you’ll answer.</p><p>Goodbye, is the final thing I want to say. Should you ever find yourself passing through our strange little town, I’ve got a couch waiting for you.</p><p>Best wishes,</p><p>Your brother<br/><br/></p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title from "These and More Than These" by Joseph Fink</p><p>this fic has a companion piece from michael's pov that's just him falling in love at first sight with a certain beautiful, mysterious air force captain with perfect hair that embraces roswell's wtnv potential wayy more, but that's a story for another day</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://katsofmeer.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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